Clean
by GeorgyannWayson
Summary: Sherlock is seventeen and fighting the monster of his addiction to drugs. With the help of those around him, he begins to take steps toward a life of beginning anew- towards a life of being clean (Story four in a collection of challenge fics) *warning: implied drug abuse*


_This one shot takes place within my AU universe that starts with 'A Small Price to Pay for Her', goes through 'The Beginnings of Us' and up to my current WIP 'Origins'. However, I do think this piece is general enough that anyone can read it and understand what's happening, so please enjoy!_

* * *

**Clean**

The crash was always the worst part.

Sherlock raised his head from the toilet bowl and stood to his feet, swallowing back the lingering taste of fresh bile that seemed to invade every crevice of his mouth. His head felt like it was about to explode, his temples pounding so hard he was surprised that the entire motel couldn't hear it. Perhaps that last hit was just a little too much – just a little. But it shouldn't have been. He was impeccable when it came to measuring the amounts for each vial. He supposed that he could sum it up to a simple miscalculation or even carelessness.

Yes, that seemed plausible. Completely rational.

He walked to the sink to wash off his sweat-drenched face and neck. By chance, his eyes moved to the mirror in front of him and for the first time in what felt like weeks, he stopped to really study his reflection. He knew the drugs were taking a toll on him, but under the harsh light of the small bathroom, it was slowly becoming clear just how bad it was getting.

Pale and gaunt, the bruises on his arms where he injected needle after needle were stiff and dark purple. Mark after mark lined along his arms, little spots sprinkled all along the dark blue and green veins as though pinpointing places on a map from a _National Geographic_ magazine. His chest, once clean and perfect, was marred with blotch after blotch of battle scars from the amounts of drugs that coursed through his system on a daily basis.

He sighed and ran his hands over his face, a pathetic attempt at erasing what he just saw. His thoughts wandered to his family, but more specifically to his older brother. How Mycroft could live in the oh so boring world around them without succumbing to the temptation to experiment, Sherlock didn't know. The world was so slow around them; how could Mycroft be content to just flow with their pace- the pace of a goldfish? Drugs at least made the days go faster, the time fly by in a nothing more than a blink. Cocaine stole whatever amount of time that he was given to think about his life, his mind or whatever the hell else was happening around him.

Sherlock leaned against the sink, his weight on his hands to study himself closer. The haze of the cocaine was quickly wearing off, and once again, the voices he tried so hard to silence were back.

_You're such a stupid little boy._

_Don't be smart, Sherlock, I'm the smart one-_

Sherlock clutched his head.

"No, shut up," he hissed to the silence around him. "Not you, not here, not now." Nevertheless, the echoes of Mycroft's voice continued all throughout his head, crescendoing to a roar that made his eardrums almost vibrate. Before he could stop himself, he followed his body's demands and walked back to the bed. He tied the shirt around his arm and prepared the needle for another hit.

_Into the median cubital vein…_

Slowly, the needle disappeared into the pale sea of his skin.

_Increased rate of dopamine; breathing elevating, heart rate increasing…_

With a sort of smile, Sherlock laid back and felt the world go dim and disappear- and that was just the way he liked it.

* * *

Mycroft put his hands to his mouth and sat back in his chair, looking all around his comfortably designed office. While he partook in the comforts of his position within the British government and reaped the reward of his dedication and hard work, his little brother was back out on the streets, living a street rat's life...again.

According to their mother's tearful explanation, Sherlock had gone missing and hadn't been seen in at least a week. Of course, she hadn't paid much mind to his disappearance at first; Sherlock was notorious for running off and being gone for days. But this time, Mummy couldn't help but feel that something had happened and as much as his parents had tried to find him, they knew it was going to be useless.

Sherlock Holmes was the ultimate chameleon. When he didn't want to be found, it didn't matter if God himself went to search for him; it was going to prove to be fruitless.

Which is why Mummy had called Mycroft. Sherlock may have been clever when it came to disappearing in the crowd, but he was still as painfully predictable as the average person in so many ways. With a sigh, Mycroft got up and grabbed his coat and umbrella.

He was in for a rather long walk.

* * *

Mycroft walked through the scattered bodies of the sleeping forms, his feet kicking cans and bottles out of the way as he confidently strode up to the last person sitting in a very familiar fetal position against the wall. Sherlock was shivering violently in his thin jacket, his hair a right mess of oily tangles, which didn't do much to hide the marks and bruises of a recent fight. He looked so much older than his innocent seventeen years, and Mycroft furiously tried to run through the catalogue of his memoires for when the last time was that he really looked at his little brother.

And he was coming up blank.

Sherlock distantly murmured to himself and scratched at the already irritated and bleeding patch of skin of his forearm.

"Sherlock." Mycroft leaned down and shook his brother's shoulder gently. Sherlock immediately quieted down, blinking furiously at the face hovering in front of him.

"Mycrof'?" he slurred loudly, his eyes wild and unfocused.

"Yes, it's me," Mycroft said in a soothing tone that even surprised him. "You need to get up and come home with me." A bottle crashed by the entrance into the tunnel and two voices started yelling so loud, Mycroft could feel his teeth rattling from the echoes of their shouts._ A drug deal gone wrong_, he noted distantly as the sounds of flesh being pounded soon followed.

"Home?" Sherlock didn't seem the slightest bit phased that hell was breaking loose all around him and sleepily smacked his lips.

"Yes, home."

"Are there biscuits at home?"

"A whole jarful." Mycroft gently pulled Sherlock to stand up and reached out to catch him as he fell forward.

"Oh, goodie," Sherlock said happily. "I do so love biscuits. You shouldn't be having them, Mycrof'." He jabbed hard at the pouch of fat by Mycroft's stomach.

"I've lost weight," Mycroft said patiently. Sherlock's bark of laughter rang out all around the tunnel.

"You, lose weight?" He snickered childishly and Mycroft had to fight with himself to keep his mouth shut. _As long as he's coming home_. With small steps and Sherlock's arm around his shoulders, Mycroft led the way out of the tunnel and into the dull light of the outside world.

* * *

Mycroft thought that the worst of his troubles were over with dragging Sherlock back to his flat in central London and putting him straight to bed in the master bedroom. But at the intense, yet graceful knock at the front door hours later, he let out a soft groan.

Of course they –or she- would. He got up and opened the door.

"I thought I told you that I have everything under control."

Chris and Linda Holmes walked into the flat, both of them completely ignoring his look and tone of utter annoyance.

"I'm sure that's true, but he's still our son," Linda said simply, all tone of motherly love gone from her voice. "And I deserve to know what's happening with him."

Mycroft looked to his father for help, but Chris simply shrugged in silent agreement.

"He won't want you to see him, Mum," Mycroft said as Linda walked into the kitchen.

"And that's supposed to stop me?" she shot back as she rummaged noisily around the cabinets for mugs. Mycroft rolled his eyes; of course, she was probably messing up the perfect order of his pristine kitchen in the flurry of motherly concern.

Wonderful.

Chris took a seat on the couch, looking around the flat.

"This is a nice place, Mike," he said. "Working for the government certainly has its advantages."

"Yes," Mycroft said flatly, shooting Linda a look as she walked back out into the sitting room and set her purse down on the table. Before he could complain about her casually putting her things all over the place, a loud bang sounded from the master bedroom and everyone turned to look toward the noise.

"Mum-" Mycroft started, but Linda was already down the hall and practically slamming open the bedroom door. As he came up behind her with Chris hot on his heels, they all saw that Sherlock was on the floor on his back, blindly reaching for the edge of the bed with one flailing arm and mumbling to himself. Mycroft half expected his mother to start fretting and fluttering around in concern like some kind of bird, but she just stood frozen on the spot, her face paling to a ghost white with each passing microsecond.

"Sherlock." Mycroft gently moved his mother aside and picked Sherlock up from the floor. "I thought I told you to call me if you needed help to get up."

"I'm not a child, Mycrof'" Sherlock slurred, rolling his head around to look at his parents. "Mummy, Daddy!" His lips curled into a sleepy smile. "Have you come for the biscuits, too?"

Chris and Linda didn't answer, but continued to stare at the scene in from of them in absolute shock. The tense silence between them all was broken by a whistle in the distance.

"Kettle's boiled," Mycroft said with a nod toward the kitchen. Chris blinked, as though he was snapping out of a trance and reached to take Linda's arm, softly coaxing her to follow him back to the kitchen. She very slowly let go of the doorknob and turned to walk away. Mycroft swallowed and moved to tuck Sherlock back into bed; though it was somewhat dark, he didn't miss the brief glimmer of tears that were in their eyes.

* * *

Linda prepared two cups of tea as Chris sat at the kitchen table, his gaze fixed on his resting folded hands. The cups gently shook as she brought them over to the table and set them down. She took a seat across from him.

"Did we do something wrong with Sherlock?" Chris asked suddenly after a long, silent minute. Linda pursed her lips and looked to her lap. "Between Mike's birth and his, did we somehow miss a memo that this was going to happen? Mike turned out just fine and we didn't do anything different between them. I...I just...I don't understand all this," he finally said with a sigh, rubbing his hand over his eyes. Linda blinked back fresh tears. She was quite honestly just as at a loss for what to do and say as Chris felt...perhaps even more so.

Sherlock had always been the wild child of the two boys; it was to be expected with him being the youngest. Her mind tried to filter through the different parenting books that she read over the years, trying her best to remember maybe a passing paragraph or two about how best to handle when a child starts to experiment with drugs. But no matter how much she tried to recall something, it was completely pointless. No parenting book on earth could've prepared her for seeing Sherlock like she did.

"Maybe...you know, maybe it's my fault."

She looked up to Chris, who had a closed fist to his mouth.

"Maybe I haven't been as good enough of a father to him as I was to Mike-"

"No, don't say that." She put her hand on his arm. "Chris, you've been the best father that you know how to be for both of the boys."

"I just can't see any other reason as to why this would happen-"

"If you're at fault, then I am, too. We're both his parents, and we each have a part to play in how he ultimately turns out. I suppose that somehow, in some way, we...we've failed him." The table fell extremely silent at her tearful revelation.

"Why did he do it, Lin?" Chris asked, and she felt her heart sink at the tone of distant heartbreak in his voice. "What did he have to go and get himself hooked on drugs for?"

"I don't know…I just don't know." She swallowed and got up from her seat to start gathering whatever ingredients that she could find to make something -anything- edible. As she rolled up her sleeves to begin chopping onions and carrots for a makeshift Sheppard's pie, she heard Chris get to his feet. She turned around to see him staring out the window to the view of the night sky over London and she left her place at the cutting board to stand next to him. Slowly, she reached to take his hand and intertwined their fingers, thankful for the light and loving squeeze of his grip.

"Where do we go from here, Lin?" he asked.

"Forward," she said as she laid her head on his shoulder. "We go forward."

* * *

Day one was already proving to be a trial within itself.

As Chris and Linda made their temporary home in the sitting room, Mycroft and Sherlock stay locked away in the master bedroom. On the bed, Sherlock lie curled in a small ball, breathing deeply into his knees. He whined softly and clutched an arm tightly around his stomach.

_Cramping,_ Mycroft noted distantly from his armchair in the corner of the room. _To be expected approximately five hours into withdrawal._ The whimpering grew a little louder.

"Sherlock, eat some ice chips. It will help you feel better," Mycroft suggested, shaking the cup of ice that their mother had just brought to the room.

"Piss off," Sherlock snapped.

"Well, they're here if you want them."

Sherlock muttered something that sounded dangerously like 'get out' with a very colorful insult attached. "Your vocabulary has certainly expanded during your…travels," Mycroft said drolly as he reached for a random book. "But might I suggest you keep it to a minimum with Mummy here. You may be seventeen, but I have a feeling that won't stop her from letting you know exactly what she thinks about your new verbal repertoire."

With that last warning, Sherlock bundled deeper into the sheets and buried his head under the pillow. _Some things never change_, Mycroft thought to himself as he began to read.

* * *

"Mycroft, it's getting dark."

Mycroft started from his light doze at the sudden announcement. Those words were the first words spoken in almost fifteen hours, but they were weighed with something that Mycroft couldn't exactly place his finger on in the haze of exhaustion that enveloped his mind.

"Dark, Mycroft. It's getting dark," Sherlock repeated, taking in a shaky breath.

_Anxiety._

"Do you want me to turn on the light for you?" Mycroft asked patiently, reaching for the light switch. "But I should warn you that the light might give you a headache."

"I don't care, just turn on the damn light-" As the light switch flicked on, Sherlock cursed and quickly buried his face in the pillow. "Shut it off," he whined and Mycroft obliged, getting up to turn on the lamp instead.

"Is that better?"

Sherlock briefly raised his head and quickly put it back down. "A little."

"All right, then." Mycroft walked back to his chair and took a seat again, thankful to hear Sherlock's breathing relax and deepen yet again.

* * *

The shuffle of footsteps brought him from the abyss of sleep. Slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes and squinted against the light of the lamp by the bedside. Though he couldn't see the person, the graceful and fluid gait of the footsteps told him exactly who was there.

"Mum," he croaked softly, trying to swallow away the stuffy feeling in his mouth. He heard Linda stop whatever she was doing and her footsteps came to the bedside.

"Oh, my darling," she murmured, taking a seat beside him. A cool cloth pressed against his forehead and dabbed down across his cheeks. "How are you feeling?"

"As though I've been hit by a train…repeatedly," he replied airily. She made a soft noise and continued to wipe his face. Usually so put together and regal in her appearance, Sherlock couldn't help but notice through the haze of his mind the frizz of her blonde hair and the dark bags under eyes, the rims a very light shade of pink.

_Slept on the sofa- _

She winced and slightly stretched her neck to the right.

_No, no…the chair in the sitting room. _

"Where's Mycroft?" he asked.

"Sleeping in the guest room." She moved his bangs to dab by his hairline. "He's been in here for the past two days with you."

"It's been two days?"

"Three by now, I'm sure." She wet the cloth again in a small bowl on the bedside table. Through the dripping of water that she rung out of the cloth, he heard her sniffling. She pawed at her eyes before turning back to him and sitting down, clenching her jaw harder and harder with each gentle dab to his skin.

"You can say it, Mum," he finally said.

"Say what?"

"That you're disappointed in me." The silence after his soft words was like a deafening roar of tension. With a sigh, Linda tossed the cloth back into the bowl.

"Is that you want to hear, Sherlock?" she asked. "Is that why you've gone through all of this trouble and gotten yourself addicted to drugs? So that I can sit here by your bedside and tell you about how disappointed I am with you?"

"I know you want to say it."

"Dare I even ask how you came to this apparently obvious conclusion?"

"I just know," he said with a swallow. "Mum, just say it. I can handle it."

For a minute, it looked as though Linda was about to get up and leave, but instead her gaze slightly narrowed, a distant fire starting to burn in her eyes as she regarded him.

"You know, if I didn't know better, I would be inclined to believe that somehow, you think that this is all a game. That somehow this is nothing more than fun for you. Am I right in that assumption?" Though he opened his mouth to answer, she barreled on. "Well, let me tell you something, Sherlock: if you think for one minute that this family is going to continue to go along with your little charades and enable you to go out there and continue acting the arse, you would be sorely mistaken."

"Do you have any idea many times you've kept your father and me up worried about you? How when each time the phone rang in the middle of the night that my first fear was being told that my little boy had died somewhere amongst strangers, high as the bloody sky with no way for me to help him? Can you even imagine that feeling?" Her voice broke and for the first time since he was a little boy, Sherlock watched as his mother fell apart in front of him and actually began to cry. She angrily swiped at the tears that fell down her cheeks and took deep breaths to compose herself before swallowing.

"I-" he started.

"I don't want to hear any more of your excuses." She got to her feet and rung out the cloth again, returning to his side. "Right now, I just want to take care of you," she murmured as the cloth ran gently down his face. "That's all."

"So I can be well for when you kill me?"

That statement actually worked in making a twitch of a smile appear. "You have to admit, that's only fair," she said with a straight face. He sighed and let the cool water against his face lull him back into a deep sleep.

* * *

"Where's Mum and Dad?"

Mycroft looked up from the book in his hands to Sherlock, who was looking around the sitting room with beady eyes, his hair in a right mess and a robe haphazardly on his body. For a split second, he didn't look like a stranger, but as the little brother that used to constantly follow him around when they were children, someone that he poured every ounce of knowledge and wisdom that he possessed into...someone that used to look up to him. He felt an extremely light pang at the memories and sighed them way.

"They went to the shop," Mycroft said as he closed the book. Sherlock walked to the couch and sat down, putting his head in his hands. "How are you feeling?"

"Like hell, thanks for asking."

"Better than yesterday, then. Good." Mycroft slightly shifted in his seat. "I've been looking into some rehabilitation centers-"

"Why?"

Mycroft paused. "For your…problem," he finally finished to which Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I take it that you disagree with my analysis of the situation."

"You know, you have some real nerve to just sit there and assume that I have a problem." Sherlock stood to his feet. "Who the hell are you to even come to that conclusion in the first place?"

"I'm your brother, that's who the hell I am." The room fell into a tense silence in which the brothers stared each other down. "Sherlock, you need to go to rehab."

"I'm not a child anymore; you can't order me to go anywhere-"

"As much as you don't want to admit this to yourself, it needs to be said: you're a drug addict. You're a hazard to yourself, and your addiction needs to be stopped before it grows into something that you can no longer control. In other words, brother dear, you're a monster in the making."

"You-"

"There's nothing you can say or do to change my mind about this; you're going and that's final."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'd like to see you try and make me go," he said lowly.

"I won't have to 'make you' do anything. The rational mind that I know you posses will at some point take over and you'll will see that you need this." Sherlock looked away. "And by the way, don't think for one minutes that I have to do any of this for you." Mycroft folded his hands in his lap. "Believe me, there are much more important things on my mind than catering to you and your habits."

"Then why waste your precious time?" Sherlock asked with a sneer.

_Because I can't help but do whatever I can to save you from yourself._ Mycroft cleared his throat.

"You're not the only person that's being affected by your behavior-" The front door opened and Chris and Linda walked into the flat with groceries in their arms.

"Oh, darling, you're up and about!" Both of their faces seemed to glow with joy, and Mycroft briefly looked to Sherlock, who was staring at them with surprise and a slight sense of –dare he call it- guilt. Linda set the groceries in her arms down and walked up to Sherlock, pulling him into her arms to hug him.

"Oh, my baby," she murmured, petting his hair. "I'm so glad you're all right." She kissed his cheek and continued to mutter, a tone of such motherly love in her voice that the whole room seem to literally grow warm. It was in that moment as Sherlock very slowly hugged his mother back that Mycroft could see that the gears were turning. Though it wasn't going to be an overnight decision, the thought was at least there, and if -or when- Sherlock took that step, Mycroft was going to be right there beside him to help him start his life over.

* * *

"You left all of you chemistry sets at home."

Mycroft handed Sherlock his suitcase – an old brown one worn from years of travel- and hide a slight smirk at the returned eye roll.

"I highly doubt that the staff would take kindly to my experimenting to find out what they put in the food," he answered flatly. From the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw Chris and Linda share a very brief smile at the joke. They all stood on the steps of Lifeway Rehabilitation Centre, the grounds all around the old building still and sober in the quiet morning.

"Well, we won't stand to embarrass you," Mycroft said after a few seconds. "Hopefully, you can find your own way inside?"

Sherlock sneered, but sobered at Linda stepping forward and gently pulling him into a hug.

"I'm so proud of you," she murmured softly.

"Yes, Mum, I know." Sherlock's ears turned red and he shot his older brother a very loud 'don't-you-even-dare-' look, to which Mycroft gracefully obliged. Chris took his turn with a hug and clapped Sherlock's back lovingly.

"Make sure you ring up often, hm?" He pulled back and gently ruffled Sherlock's hair. "Don't want to have Mum be worried about you."

"I know, I know," Sherlock grumbled as he fixed his hair. With one last nod to the family, he turned around and walked up the stairs, disappearing into the building with a loud slam of the door behind him. Everyone let out a collective sigh.

"Oh, I hope he'll be all right," Linda said tearfully as they turned around to walk back to the car.

"He will be, darling." Chris took her hand. "It's just for a while, after all."

Mycroft climbed into the backseat of the car and looked one time to the building. _Yes, he will,_ he thought to himself as they all drove away. _He'll be just fine._

* * *

**NOTE: This is for the prompt "AU: Monster" for the Let's Write Sherlock Bingo Challenge.**

**So, I can some of you going 'wait…where are the monsters?' For this prompt, I chose to go with a monster that eats away from the inside of a person: the monster of addiction. And because this one shot is in an established AU…well, I just went along with it and this is the result!**

**I want to give special thanks to two writers from The Reviews Lounge, Too forum here: Cheile and Scorp's Favorie Little Ange. These two wonderful writers encouraged me to put this story up after tons of hesitation on my end. If it wasn't for them, this would've never left my flash drive.**

**And as a last aside, this was originally a song challenge fic, so if you can guess the song it's based off of, you get virtual cookies!**

**At any rate, I hope you enjoyed and please if you have time, lemme know how I did!**

**GeorgyannWayson**


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